


I like my body when

by zjofierose



Series: YoI rarepair week [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Polyamory, Sweet, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Yuuri comes to visit Otabek in Almaty, in search of some much needed R&R
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Katsuki Yuuri, Otabek Altin/Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky
Series: YoI rarepair week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594894
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57
Collections: YOI Rare Pair Week 2020





	I like my body when

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from a series of things I'm working on about a post-canon poly Yuuri/Viktor/Yuri/Otabek relationship. This won't be chronologically the first story in that setting, but it's the first one I'm done with, soooo...
> 
> In this, they've all been together for almost two years. Viktor and Yuuri were the original pair, but Yuri and then Otabek were added to the relationship, and now it really is equal between all four of them, with each pair having their own separate relationship and dynamic. 
> 
> Written for the 2020 YOI Rarepair week. Day 2: Travel

Otabek picks him up from the airport on his motorcycle, and while Yuuri doesn’t think he’s likely to make like Yura and start studying for his own learner’s permit, he can definitely see the appeal of riding. The wind rushing past, the immediacy of the scenery, the thick muscle of Otabek’s waist beneath his arms. Yeah, Yuuri gets it.

It’s cold still in Almaty - not frigid, and the leaves are busily sprouting new green leaves as spring rushes in around the cracks and corners of the buildings - but it’s still chilly, enough that Yuuri shivers until Otabek pulls off his leather jacket with a smile and drapes it around Yuuri’s shoulders. It’s warm, and smells like Otabek, deep and earthy with a hint of cologne. It’s one of the many things that Yuuri finds attractive about Otabek, if he’s honest - he’s not posh like Viktor or Yuri. His jacket is nice, but it’s worn; he wears cologne, but it smells like something Yuuri’s father or Nisihigori would wear, not like some foreign boutique. For all that Yuuri loves Viktor and Yuri (and he does,  _ oh _ , how he does), there’s something familiar about Otabek that resonates.

Yuri and Viktor are both busy in St. Petersburg, Yuri with training and Viktor with choreographing new programs for all of them for next season (and for Mila as well - in spite of not having the decency to stop winning and retire already, he’s started a whole second career as a choreographer to his friends). Yuuri would, ostensibly  _ should _ , be with them, but Otabek had decided to come home for a week for the Kazakh new year’s celebrations, and Yuuri had decided to join him for a long weekend, wanting a break from training and the hustle and bustle of their lives in Russia. 

Otabek’s apartment is in the center of the city, and it’s not ostentatious, but it’s certainly nice, with its modern kitchen and large living room full of windows. Yuuri had been surprised he still had it, given the small amount of time Otabek spends in Almaty these days, but when Yuuri had asked, Otabek just shrugged. 

“My sister’s been living in it while she goes to college,” he’d said, pocketing his keys and hanging up his coat. “She’s gone home for the week though for spring break, so we’ll have it to ourselves.”

The view from the windows is spectacular, and Yuuri moves unthinkingly toward it the moment he kicks off his shoes at the door, standing in front of the glass and looking out at the early evening dusk wreathing the mountains in purples and blues. 

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Otabek rests his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder and hums. “It’s home,” he says, and Yuuri tips his head to rest against Otabek’s. They both live in St. Petersburg now, are both fond of their adopted country, and love it for the love it’s given them, but it will never truly be home.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says softly, and leaves it at that.

\---

The sun sets behind the mountains, bathing the living room in gold, glowing across the wood floors and gilding Otabek’s warm skin with light. Otabek pulls out a pair of headphones and yanks a dust sheet off of a stack of DJ equipment in the corner, flipping through records with a single-minded focus while Yuuri scoots the coffee table to the side of the couch and trades his jeans for leggings, pours himself a glass of the local beer he’d found in the fridge. Otabek doesn’t drink, but he’s never minded Yuri and Viktor’s love of vodka and champagne, or Yuuri’s predilection for beer and sake. 

It’s good beer, light and tasty, and as Otabek spins through the music, settling on a tone, a mood, Yuuri lets the alcohol bubble through him as he stretches, shaking off the six hour flight and the stress of the end of the season, pulling his limbs into extension and breath.

The beat drops, then settles into a steady pulse, and Yuuri lets himself begin to move, closing his eyes and spinning, flowing into the shapes and figures ingrained in his muscles, his bones. He lets the music envelop him, lets Otabek’s skill carry him high and then low, up and then down, over and around and through until he’s panting, dripping sweat onto the hardwood of Otabek’s living room floor and euphoric. 

The music fades out as the moon rises, settles into something slow and hypnotic, and Yuuri lays himself out on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, hair plastered to his forehead. 

Otabek crouches beside him presses a large glass into his hand. “Drink,” he says, and lets Yuuri lean against his knee as he does so, swallowing in big, steady gulps. Otabek waits till he’s done, then lays him back down and goes to refill the glass. 

When he returns, he sets the glass by the window and motions to Yuuri to roll over onto his belly, waiting until Yuuri’s sprawled over and arranged comfortably before settling his own weight over Yuuri’s hips. The first push of Otabek’s hands onto his back makes Yuuri moan outright, the strength of Otabek’s arms digging into the inevitable knots he gets from traveling. Otabek works him over efficiently, pressing hard into his shoulders, his hips, his sacrum. By the time Otabek is tapping his hip to turn him over, Yuuri is a floppy, relaxed mess. 

“Come on,” Otabek says, and Yuuri can hear the smile in his voice and treasures it. Even nearly two years into their relationship, Otabek is never overt with his affectionate gestures, not expansive with his emotions the way Yuri and Viktor are. Yuuri loves it, loves  _ him _ , loves the challenge of earning every tilt of Otabek’s lips, every surprised chuckle.

He rolls over, and Otabek kneels up beside him, lifting Yuuri’s leg under the ankle and knee, bending it forward and pressing deep into Yuuri’s hamstrings. 

“You’re tight,” Otabek murmurs, and Yuuri shrugs against the floor. It’s been a long season. “You haven’t been stretching enough.”

“It’s just this week,” Yuuri replies softly, reaching up to wind a hand into Otabek’s thick hair. “You know you’re my favorite stretching partner.”

Otabek snorts, but he smiles, too. “Vitya and Yura are too impatient.” He eases Yuuri’s leg down and reaches for the other, supporting it as he bends it up, moving it in gentle circles to loosen the joint, then pressing forward. Yuuri breathes into the stretch, letting his eyes close and his hands stroke the short hairs of Otabek’s undercut. 

“Vitya and Yura forget that not all of us are preternaturally flexible geniuses,” Yuuri answers, and Otabek chuckles softly, pressing his face to the inside of Yuuri’s knee. 

“Maybe so,” Otabek tells him easing this leg down as well, pulling gently on both legs at once to realign Yuuri’s position on the floor, “but no one moves like you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri drags him down and kisses him with the ease of long familiarity, pulling Otabek’s strong form over him and wrapping his arms around Otabek’s broad shoulders as he relearns the shape of Otabek’s mouth. 

They kiss for a long time, lazy and slow as the music winds through the room and the stars come out over the city lights in front of them. Yuuri can feel Otabek’s hardness against his thigh, knows he’s hard as well, but there’s no urgency in their motions, nothing beyond a slow and inevitable build formed of touches and strokes and soft presses of lips. 

Otabek gets a hand under Yuuri’s leggings eventually, yanking them down over Yuuri’s hips to free his cock and mouthing down Yuuri’s neck to his chest. Yuuri gasps for breath, then catches Otabek by the back of the neck to still him, meeting his eyes and flushing pink.

“I’m all sweaty,” he warns, because even if his body has cooled down, he’s still sticky and probably smells like airplane and exertion. 

Otabek just smiles and sits up, pulling Yuuri’s leggings and underwear off in one fell swoop, grinning as Yuuri’s bare ass sticks to the wood floor. “I like it,” he says, and Yuuri rolls his eyes. 

“Gross, Beka,” Yuuri complains, but he doesn’t resist when Otabek pulls away from his hand and continues the trail of his mouth down Yuuri’s abdomen to the flare of his hips. They’re closer in appearance to each other than either of them are to Yuri or Viktor, but especially this late in the season, the differences are apparent. Where Yuuri can be stocky in the off-season, his body putting on weight easily and his face plumping up (adorably, according to Viktor), during training and competition he narrows down, becoming lean muscle and trim lines, his torso hollowed and his limbs longer. Otabek is the opposite, his body relaxing in the off-season into something more trim, more elegant. In March, he’s built like a brick house, solid like a tree trunk and just as strong. 

Yuuri wants to climb him like a tree, that’s for damn sure. Otabek nudges between his thighs, elbowing Yuuri’s knees apart, and Yuuri sits up to grasp at him, batting his hands away. “Come,” he gets out, grasping at Otabek’s waistband and yanking, “come  _ here _ . I don’t care if you blow me, but I want to touch you, too.”

Otabek’s laughing at him, eyes dancing and face warm, and Yuuri can’t help but blush. 

“Okay,” Otabek says, and rolls onto his back, shucking off his jeans and underwear without a shred of self-consciousness, reaching out to catch Yuuri’s outer hip and pull him onto his side as he stretches his own legs up past Yuuri’s head. “How’s this?”

“Good,” Yuuri breathes, watching as Otabek pushes his upper leg out of the way, planting Yuuri’s foot on the floor with his knee bent, and resting his head on the inside of Yuuri’s bottom thigh. There’s a burning heat in Otabek’s eyes when he glances up, and the roughness of the fabric of his shirt is tantalizing against Yuuri’s bare hips and belly.

Nearly as tantalizing as the vision in front of his face, however. Yuuri’s torso is slightly longer than Otabek’s, just like he’s slightly taller, so he tips onto his side and curls just a little, making his body into a half moon. Otabek shifts, spreading his thighs, and Yuuri opens his mouth and takes him in to the root, eyes closing as he sucks contentedly. He gets an elbow up and props his head on it, letting Otabek fuck into his mouth with controlled little rolls of his hips. 

It’s bliss when Otabek nuzzles into his groin, licking at his skin and mouthing at his balls. Yuuri likes a slow build, can come like a freight train with the right preparation, and Otabek knows it, just like Yuuri knows that Otabek prefers regularity, wants to be touched in the same careful, predictable ways so that he’s able to take his methodical pleasure at his own speed. 

He strokes his free hand firmly down Otabek’s thigh, admiring the heavy muscle and massaging at the joint as he rolls his tongue around the head of Otabek’s slowly thrusting cock. He can’t help the moan when Otabek finally runs his tongue around Yuuri’s own erection, the heat of his mouth and the gentle rasp of his tongue exquisite in the cooling air of the room. Otabek wraps a hand around Yuuri’s lower back and swallows him down, just holding him while Yuuri breathes through the sensations, reveling in them even as he clutches at Otabek’s rocking hips. 

Their position doesn’t allow for too much movement, requires them to brace themselves on each other, to cooperate in their motions as the slick slide of them becomes  _ more _ , as their motions become laced with intent, move from lazy and luxuriant to focused and deliberate. It’s like dancing, Yuuri thinks, and smiles around Otabek’s cock. He likes dancing with Otabek, likes letting him lead, likes it when Otabek lifts him or dips him, or when they’re fooling around on the ice and Otabek throws him. They move well together, differently, closer to equals with their similar size and strength, determined and unflagging, still graceful, still melodic. 

Yuuri wraps a hand around Otabek’s hip and pulls, rolling onto his back, and Otabek takes the hint, sliding onto his knees without either of them coming unlatched. Yuuri sighs in happiness as Otabek’s thighs press around his head, as Otabek fucks harder into his mouth, his speed picking up even as he begins to pull at Yuuri’s cock with determination. Yuuri can feel it building in his belly, can feel Otabek pulling his orgasm from him inexorably, and gives himself over to it, wrapping his hands around the back of Otabek’s hairy thighs and opening his mouth as wide as he can. 

Otabek taps at his hip in warning, and Yuuri just hums in acknowledgment, sucking hard as Otabek’s thrusts finally break their rhythm, stuttering into Yuuri’s mouth as he comes. Yuuri’s never minded the taste of it, likes the physical evidence of his ability to bring pleasure, so he swallows it down, letting the knowledge of Otabek’s desire and satisfaction spur him on to his own release. 

Otabek holds him through the aftershocks, his mouth warm and comforting as Yuuri works it out, shuddering and spent, his legs falling to the floor as Otabek wipes his mouth and chuckles. He swings his leg back over Yuuri’s head and stretches out on his side, his now soft cock draped across his thigh and his head pillowed just above Yuuri’s knee. 

Yuuri cuddles against Otabek’s kneecaps and holds Otabek’s gaze, smiling, knowing he must look exhausted and overheated, but unwilling to move just yet. It’s been a long season, and this is exactly what he needs. 

Their phones chirp in unison from across the room, and Otabek chuckles, his eyes warm and his breath ticklish against Yuuri’s thigh. “Yura or Vitya?” he asks, and Yuuri grins.

“Definitely Yura. Vitya’d make it at least another couple of hours of pouting that we haven’t called yet.” 

Otabek rolls onto his back with a sigh, then flips himself onto his feet in a move that Yuri would envy if he were here. He stands up and holds out a hand, waiting for Yuuri to take hold of it before hauling him to his feet. 

Yuuri grimaces, looking down at them both. “Can we shower before we call them?” 

“Sure.” Otabek smiles, intertwining their fingers and leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Yuuri’s mouth. “Welcome to Almaty.”


End file.
